


Out of the Rubble

by Madin456



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Meteor City, Poverty, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-08 05:16:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11074812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madin456/pseuds/Madin456
Summary: They are no one. They are the Spiders.(Or, how the Phantom Troupe came to be.)





	1. Phinks and Feitan

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this story idea for the longest time. Main focus will be on the founding Troupe members: Phinks, Feitan, Machi, Nobunaga, Shalnark, Franklin, Pakunoda, Chrollo. Ages from 14-18.

There aren’t many things that can get by Phinks unnoticed.

A few meters above him, his ears register the faint sounds of a rat scurrying along the ledge of a rooftop, the critter’s feet rushing by in a flurry of quick movements. In the shadows of the alleyway to his left, his eyes pick up the silhouettes of a group of young kids, all skin and bone, starved and waiting for someone weak to prey on.

It’s survivor’s instinct. Heightened senses used to adapt to living in a place as miserable as Meteor City.

Phinks lifts the half-rotten apple in his hand, a rare luxury in this garbage dump and his first meal in days, and opens his mouth to take a bite. Where he expects to sink his teeth into the crunchy outer layer, he swallows a mouthful of air instead.

He looks down and the apple is gone. In his peripheral vision, he catches sight of a dark figure running barefoot to the other side of the street.

_Fucking thief._

His stomach growls in anger and without skipping a beat, he sprints after his target. He’ll make anyone who dares to steal from him regret it.

.

In the middle of Meteor City: a ring formed by residents in tattered shirts and ripped jeans. They huddle together as a crowd of muddy hair and foul breaths and dirtied fingernails. Some of them whisper to each other, exchanging a pair of broken shoes for a piece of stale bread or a ripped up blanket for a dysfunctional umbrella—placing bets.

At the center of the ring: two boys.

Phinks stands tall, confident, blond hair sleeked back and the outlines of well-developed muscles evident underneath his thin T-shirt. His black eyes stare intensely at his opponent as he cranks up his arm, preparing for a fistfight against someone who looks half his weight.

The no-name in front of him is a scrawny kid with messy brown hair and bony hands that clench tightly to the bag strapped around his shoulder. Inside the bag is an apple that belongs to Phinks, among other scraps of food, no doubt also stolen from various other people.

The air around the makeshift arena is silent. Without warning, Phinks kneels down and leaps forward, drawing his arm back to go for the first hit. He’s fast; when the brown-haired boy blinks, Phinks has already crossed the distance between them and his fist is just inches away from the thief’s face. But his attack never hits and he feels no contact.

A blur of black invades his vision. Not a minute later, his victim’s head is rolling on the floor.

Everyone in the crowd gasps in unison, taking a step back and expanding the circle. Phinks whirls around to see another kid, shorter this time, and he can’t decide what’s worse—the fact that his target is dead by someone else’s hand or that this newcomer is dressed solely in black, all shady and emo.

“Hey, you!” He yells out, eyes narrowed. “That was _my_ opponent! Mind your own business!”

The younger boy seems unfazed as he shakes his victim’s blood off his weapon, a dark red umbrella with the image of a skull embedded onto it. Phinks watches him heave the umbrella over his shoulder in a nonchalant manner that gets his blood boiling. “He steal from me first,” a deep, rough voice replies in monotone, speaking in broken Japanese. “I kill.”

And then, in a flash similar to how he appeared, the dark-haired boy vanishes upon the completion of his task.

The other citizens also disperse soon after, murmuring whispers of what they just witnessed, leaving Phinks in the middle of the street with no one to direct his anger towards. He had been stolen from twice today. It’s truly unforgivable.

Eerily calm, he makes his way over to a nearby house made of bricks that are already beginning to fall apart. He swings his arm back once, twice, and punches the walls with a loud cry.

The bricks crumple down and Phinks walks away, hand throbbing just the slightest.

.

Feitan had been careless. The anger had made him act rashly, pushing his way through a large crowd of people just to reach the brown-haired boy who had taken his food from him. The boy was already dead either way, about to be defeated by the blond standing in front of him, but Feitan had wanted the kill. It was the least he could do to repay the petty little thief for robbing him of his hard-earned meal.

Now, there is blood on his clothes. How annoying. Once it dries and hardens, permanently staining the cloth, there will be no way to wash it off. Which means he’ll have to get a new sweater soon. Again. The second one this month.

He really needs to perform cleaner kills.

There is a stir of movement beside a small mountain of garbage that has piled up on the side of the street. Feitan makes quick work of his feet and easily captures a lone, grey pigeon with his bare hands. He holds up the squirming bird, examining it for a moment and simply watching its futile struggle for freedom from his grasp. In a sick manner, he begins to pluck the pigeon’s feathers off one by one, until one of its wings is entirely bare and it’s screeching in pain.

The sight brings a cruel grin to his face. But when he realizes that he still needs new clothing and shouldn’t be wasting time here, he shifts the pigeon into one hand and squeezes. Hard, _harder_ , until the poor animal’s eyes are bulging, feet thrashing wildly, beak pecking weakly at Feitan’s skin.

One, two, three seconds and then—silence. The bird goes still. Dead.

Feitan stuffs the pigeon into his pocket and thinks about how good its meat would taste, the feeling of biting into it with his bare teeth. Maybe he could roast it over a fire and steal some spices from the makeshift marketplace a few blocks down from where he lives. The thought alone is enough to make his stomach growl, but no—clothes come first.

He makes a quick trip back to his house and grabs a few other things he happened to collect over the months. They’re all worthless to him but he’s learned that other people will take interest in the weirdest stuff.

Finally ready, he sets off for the east side of Meteor City. There’s supposedly a small shop run by two people and he’s heard rumours of a pink-haired girl who sews clothing for customers in exchange for, well, anything they deem worthy. Feitan is hoping they’ll accept a dead pigeon. If not, he has some other things to bargain with as backup.

The walk to the other side of town feels torturously long under the burning heat of the afternoon sun. His shirt has become stiff now that the blood from earlier has dried, making it even harder for him to move around freely. Scowling, he prays that this shop is the real thing and not just a scam because he just wants clean clothing for once. While stealing shirts off dead bodies on the streets is the easier option, it’s never pleasant.

Upon arriving, he almost completely walks past the building. There isn’t any sign indicating that this is the place, but considering that it’s the only one with a few pieces of clothing on display on the other side of the window, Feitan figures this is probably what he’s been looking for.

Inside, the house is just as worn down as any regular building in Meteor City. Other than the large cloths hanging from the walls as improvised curtains, which is still better than what most people have, nothing else really stands out.

That’s alright, though, because Feitan isn’t here to inspect the architecture. He walks over to where a girl, indeed with pink hair just like he’s heard, calls out and greets him. She doesn’t sound particularly thrilled to talk him, but neither of them are here to make casual conversation, anyway.

Wasting no time, Feitan dumps everything he brought with him onto the counter: the pigeon, a few batteries, a broken fan, and other miscellaneous items he happened to have in his room. He pushes the them toward the girl in offering.

She tucks a strand of short hair behind her ear and accepts the payment. “Thanks,” she says, taking out her sewing materials from a drawer and laying out the different types of cloth on display. “What would you like?”

Feitan lifts up the sleeve of his sweater, gesturing toward it and replies, “Sweater. With pockets.” He emphasizes his need for pockets because he needs a place to store his collection of knives that he likes to keep on his body, just in case.

“Colour?”

“Black.”

“Alright,” she confirms. “It’ll take about half an hour for me to make a sweater for you, but feel free to wait over there if you’d like.” She points to the right where a couple of chairs are placed.

Feitan sits down quietly and examines the articles of clothing laid out beside him. Honestly, he’s impressed by the quality of the things here. He didn’t think quality was something that even existed in Meteor City.

When the girl is done and holds up the new sweater for him to see, Feitan nods, satisfied. The fabric feels nice under his fingertips and he thinks he might even come back some time in the future if he needs to. He takes it from her and walks out the door; no exchange of words of gratification or farewells because those are pointless. Their interaction is one based purely on doing business, payment given for a service in return, and personal things like addressing each other by name is unnecessary.

Because they are simply one of the many outcasts living in this junkyard city, existences unknown to the rest of the world. It’s easy to understand, really, and Feitan thinks of it like this:

They are no one.

And he likes it that way. Likes the freedom.

But most of all, he likes his new sweater, completely free of blood stains.


	2. Machi and Pakunoda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized that I forgot about Uvo being one of the founders of the Troupe too so uh... I'll be trying to find a way to incorporate him in the story. Somehow. 
> 
> This chapter continues right after the events of last chapter.

In Machi’s mind, she is a businesswoman. She runs a shop at the edge of Meteor City with her partner, Pakunoda; it’s fairly successful and this is how they get by.

In reality, they’re barely sustaining the shabby building they call home. Occasionally, once every few days if they’re lucky, someone will come in with items to trade and Machi sews clothing for their customers. She’s gotten pretty good at it and her materials are considerably durable—meaning that they can last up to two weeks if they’re taken care of well.

Upon finishing the clothes and confirming approval from the client, Machi passes on the items to Pakunoda. They’ve received a variety of objects, some stranger than others, but never money. Money has no value in Meteor City.

As a person of instinct, Machi can generally tell whether these items will be of use or if they’re being horribly scammed. She remembers, a few weeks ago, when two little girls, twins, came into the shop and asked her to knit them a small scarf for this orange-brown cat they had picked up off the streets. They offered a dead Gameboy and shed a couple of tears in exchange for the favour. She had accepted, even when Pakunoda claimed that the payment wasn’t worth the task.

Now, the twins’ cat is probably dead, but Machi still has the Gameboy on one of their shelves. Something in her gut tells her that they will be able to put it to use and the time has finally come.

When she hands over the batteries she obtained today to Pakunoda along with the old Gameboy, she doesn’t say _I told you so_ but the words are still there, unspoken, in her smug expression.

“That shorty actually had batteries for a Gameboy?” The blonde asks, incredulous, leaning over to inspect the now-functioning electronic in her usual posture, arms crossed over her chest.

“Guess so,” Machi smirks. “I almost didn’t believe it either when he came in asking for a sweater. But you should be able to bargain for something useful with this now, right?”

Pakunoda takes the Gameboy from Machi and nods, excited glint in her eyes. “We’ll see.”

.

The little marketplace in Meteor City is something Pakunoda has familiarized herself with over the past couple of years. She’d even go as far as to consider herself a regular consumer there, sometimes getting small discounts from dealers just because of how often she trades with them.

It had been a lot harder before she met Machi, but now that they’re able to obtain much more valuable products from the pink-haired girl’s clothing service, Pakunoda finds that haggling with others at the market is infinitely easier. By nature, she has always held herself confidently, gaze unwavering from the person she’s addressing and speaking in a stern, clear voice. This has proven to be advantageous many times when demanding for a better offer from merchants.

“Paku!” She’s waved over by a boy wearing a purple kimono, hair tied up to imitate a samurai’s. “How’s it going? Got anything good to trade today?”

She nods at him in acknowledgement before taking out the Gameboy. “What do you have to exchange for this, Nobunaga?”

Whistling, he reaches out to inspect the electronic. “Wow, this thing actually works?”

“Of course,” Pakunoda confirms.

Nobunaga reaches deep into his sleeves and pulls out a chipped pen, a worn-out hat, and bright green sunglasses. “How about it? Any of these look good?”

Pakunoda furrows her eyebrows, frowning. She can get any of the items Nobunaga offered her from anyone else for a much cheaper trade, probably in better condition too. “Do you think I’m stupid? The Gameboy is worth a lot more than that.”

“Oh, I know,” the boy holds up his hands in surrender. “Unfortunately, I’m not much of a gamer so it isn’t very valuable to me. This is my final offer.”

The blonde narrows her eyes and turns away. “Forget it. I’ll just find someone else.”

Ignoring the calls that come from Nobunaga behind her, she walks further into the market. Holding up the Gameboy, she frowns at the grey console, grey and boring just like everything else in Meteor City. Nobunaga’s words from earlier linger in her mind, and she wonders, would anyone living here even be interested in playing games on an old device? Perhaps it isn’t as good of an item to trade as she originally thought; nothing more than another luxury that none of them can afford.

Wind picks up, dragging dust along the streets of cracked pavement. There are so many bodies lying on the sides of the road; some sleeping, some never waking up again. Failure to trade her items could very easily lead Pakunoda to a lifestyle like theirs. How long until she becomes another pile of bones eating dirt for lunch? How long?

“Hey, are you looking to get rid of that?”

Pakunoda blinks in surprise at the boy who has appeared in front of her, all smiles and flashing teeth. He’s pointing at the Gameboy. “I am. Who are you?”

“Shalnark. I’d like to buy the Gameboy off you.”

“What do you have to offer?”

If possible, his grin widens even more as he spreads his arms out. “Name your price!”

“Food,” she answers immediately. An obvious choice. “And sewing supplies, if you have any. Like needles or cloth.”

Nodding, he tells her, “Wait here.” And then he’s gone, running off into an alleyway to gather his belongings.

Pakunoda taps her foot absentmindedly while she waits. A few minutes pass as she continues to stand in the middle of the market, debating the possibility of Shalnark having abandoned her. The chances are admittedly very high. It oddly feels a little like being stood up to a date.

But then—she _senses_ something, a warning sound suddenly going off in her mind, a shift in the shadows beside her. When she jumps back a couple of feet, it’s purely an act of instinct, feet moving to just narrowly avoid the oncoming attack. Regaining her posture, Pakunoda narrows her eyes at Shalnark, who has announced his return with an attempted act of thievery, fingers just managing to scrape the edge of the Gameboy before Pakunoda had pulled away.

A frown settles on the boy’s face for no longer than a second before he masks his displeasure with a smile again. “You’re quick,” he acknowledges. He ties up the plastic bag he’s brought back with him and throws it toward her. Pakunoda catches it with her free hand. “There are some fruits and a few of my old shirts in there.”

“Thanks,” she replies curtly once she’s checked the contents of the bag to confirm his words. The fruits seem to have been rotten for a few days, but still edible enough. She hands over the Gameboy to him and Shalnark takes it with a look that says, _No hard feelings, right?_ Pakunoda turns around, not bothering to respond to his silent question.

They part ways and she sighs. Letting her guard down while she had been lost in thought was a dangerous mistake she made, even if it had only been for a few minutes. Except that’s not all; when Shalnark had returned, Pakunoda sensed a second presence with him, faint and skillfully hidden but still there. Like a shadow.

At first, she had thought the person was tailing Shalnark. Now that Shalnark had left in the opposite direction, she’s sure that _she_ is the one being followed.

Picking up the pace, Pakunoda speed walks out of the marketplace with her arms crossed tightly in front of her chest as if having them there would give her a sense of security. Almost as though the person knows that she is aware of their presence, they retreat within themselves, curling up into a ball to the point where it’s like they suddenly disappeared off the grid.

Pakunoda’s heart beats fast, adrenaline accelerated. Whoever this person is, they’re experienced. Strong. And they need to be dealt with before they follow her all the way home.

She sharply turns a corner and leans against the wall, exhaling. Closing her eyes, she focuses on searching for her opponent, waiting for them to come closer to her. A shuffle of the shadows in front of her has her instantly lunging forward, grabbing at the silhouette to flip them over and lock their hands behind their back in one fluid movement.

Now visible and under her hold, Pakunoda sees a man with black hair and quiet laughter in his eyes. He twists around to look at her.

“You were able to detect my presence,” he states calmly, voice smooth even in his compromised position, “that’s quite impressive.”

Pakunoda tightens her grip on him. “Who are you? Why were you following me?”

“My name is Chrollo Lucilfer. I have a proposition for you and your friend.”

.

Machi wishes she had a guard dog.

Of course, she could never afford to take care of a pet, but a dog would certainly help scare off some of the kids who try to steal the supplies from her shop every day. There’s a small group of them circling around the window right now, not-so-subtly peering inside to see if she’s distracted so they can run in and grab what they want.

So annoying. And she can’t even blame them because she would’ve done the exact same thing.

Unfortunately, having them lingering around is bad for business. Moving fast, Machi slips out the back door with a long stick in hand. She rounds up behind the kids and raises the stick before bringing it down dramatically with a yell. _“Get the hell out of here!”_

They jump at the threat and quickly scatter away, eyes wide and looking like they’re about to shit themselves. Machi sighs and walks back into the store, stick slung over her shoulder, returning to her spot behind the counter.

Not long after, the front door opens and she looks up in annoyance, wondering if those kids are really back already with the nerve to just walk in. What she sees instead is blonde hair and a familiar face.

“Hey, Paku, did you—” Machi cuts herself off when she notices a man walking in after her friend. “Who’s this?”

The expression on Pakunoda’s face is one of disgust mixed with suspicion as her eyes flicker to glance at the dark-haired man who insisted on coming back with her. “He followed me all the way from the market. Apparently his name is Chrollo and he said he wanted to talk to us.”

Machi nods slowly, inspecting the stranger. He’s managed to keep his black T-shirt and long pants fairly clean and he doesn’t look like he’d be interested in new clothing. Not a customer, then. There’s something that seems off about him, though, something inside her that tells her she needs to be careful around this person. She inches her hand closer to the drawer on her right where a small pocket knife is kept, preparing for—

“There’s no need to reach for weapons,” the man says, lips curled up just the slightest. Machi curses silently at being caught and retracts her hand. “I’ll make it quick. Tomorrow, at noon, I want you to meet me a few blocks north of here, where a large pile of rubble has gathered. Once you arrive, I will then explain everything in further detail there.”

Exchanging a glance with Pakunoda, the pink-haired girl narrows her eyes at Chrollo. She knows the place he mentioned, but there’s nothing there; just dirt, rocks, and leftover bricks from collapsed buildings.

“Why us?” She asks finally.

At this, Chrollo stares directly into her eyes and Machi can feel chills running down her spine from the intensity of his gaze. “Because,” he drawls out, turning his head to give an equally intense look to Pakunoda, “you two have a lot of potential.”

Machi frowns at the vague answer. Potential for _what_?

“I won’t force you to come, but I hope you consider my offer,” Chrollo continues but something in his tone indicates that he already knows they will be attending the meeting and it infuriates her, how he seems to think that he knows so much about them already.

When he bids them farewell and takes his leave, Machi stares at the door after him. She wonders just what this whole thing is about, what they could possibly offer to someone like Chrollo. Because they themselves are only just barely surviving in this world of abandoned junk, this world isolated in Meteor City.

Because they are no one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really don’t know why, but I’ve always imagined Meteor City to have a small, makeshift marketplace. I mean, I know it’s more likely that people would just steal or kill others to get what they want but… the market, man. The market.
> 
> If you have any ideas for what Uvo could be doing in his teens please let me know cause I'll be honest, I have no idea how to add him in here right now. Forgetting about him when I was planning out the story was a mistake. ;-;


End file.
